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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26321929">A Quick Pinch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks'>lurkinglurkerwholurks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, World's Finest (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5 Times, 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baby Bruce Wayne, Back Pain, Barbara Gordon in a Wheelchair, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Complete, Dick Grayson is Robin, Forehead Kisses, Forehead Touching, Gen, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Kryptonite, Medical Procedures, Needles, Panic Attacks, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), one profanity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:01:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26321929</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A formative experience, four iterations, and a reversal.</p><p>or, 5 Times Bruce Wayne Held Someone's Hand During A Shot And 1 Time His Hand Was Held</p><p>or, The Author Wanted To Write About Two Specific People Being Afraid Of Needles And Wrote Four Extra Chapters For Cover</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alfred Pennyworth &amp; Bruce Wayne, Barbara Gordon &amp; Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne &amp; Martha Wayne, Bruce Wayne &amp; Thomas Wayne, Clark Kent &amp; Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson &amp; Bruce Wayne, Kiran "Dev" Devabhaktuni &amp; Bruce Wayne, Kiran "Dev" Devabhaktuni &amp; Damian Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>241</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>510</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Mom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic contains depictions of needles, medicine, and vaccines. All needle use is beneficial (no illicit drugs or torture), so sorry if that's disappointing but also if those are squicks, you're clear, no worries.</p><p>I have 4.5 chapters fully written, so this fic will update once a week, every Sunday. Subscribe to get the notifications as soon as they post!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bruce liked his father’s bag. It was brown, not black like the ones in cartoons, and its sides were soft and warm. It smelled like the creaky chair in the study, the one Bruce liked to sit and spin in when his father was away. Bruce would press his nose into the arm of the chair and sniff deeply, and he would do the same to the bag when his father left it out, which wasn’t often. Unlike the chair, which was just a chair and was no danger unless Bruce stood up in it and rocked, the bag contained important things, powerful things. Bruce liked that about it, too.</p><p>The bag, when it wasn’t with Bruce’s father, was usually kept on the top shelf of his parents’ closet, too high for Bruce to reach even if he stood on a stool. Not that he would, of course. But it should be noted that he couldn’t if he wanted to.</p><p>The bag wasn’t in the closet now. It was on the kitchen table, its spinning number lock undone and its stout handles spread wide. The bag’s mouth gaped open, like the baby birds in the nest beneath Bruce’s bedroom window, only instead of opening to receive things like worms and grubs, the bag’s dark mouth was open for Bruce’s father to take.</p><p>Normally, Bruce would have been at his father’s elbow, stretched on tiptoe to try to peer inside. He knew some of what was kept in the emergency bag. That’s what it was, an emergency bag and a visiting bag, for important doctorly tasks that couldn’t or wouldn’t happen in Thomas Wayne’s office or his gleaming surgical suite. Bruce liked when his father let him pull out the rolled bandages and line them up in a straight row or listen to his own heart with the snakey stethoscope. He liked hearing the clinking of the little bottles he wasn’t allowed to touch even with a grownup near.</p><p>This time, though, Bruce had retreated to a safe distance, one that he judged would give him enough of a head start to disappear into the house should he need to escape. His interest in the bag, in the doings of his father, kept him tethered to the kitchen, but only just. Because his father was rummaging in his bag, rolled shirt sleeves disappearing into the spread mouth, and was removing not the stethoscope or the clicky little penlight, but a hardback black pouch. And in the pouch were <i>needles.</i></p><p>“Bruce, come here,” his father said from the table.</p><p>Bruce did not come. He would not come while the black pouch was open on the table. He took another step back and bumped into legs. Bruce tipped his head back and looked up, up, up into the nose of Alfred Pennyworth. Alfred’s eyes stared down from behind the nostrils and neat black mustache. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. The traitor had cut off his escape route. Bruce’s bottom lip quivered at the betrayal.</p><p>“Bruce.” A new, gentler voice. His mother. She pulled out one of the chairs, then another, and sat in the first. “Come hold my hand.”</p><p>Bruce stared, confused and wary of a potential trap. Alfred’s legs were a solid wall against his back. His mother smiled warmly and held out her hand.</p><p>“Your father needs to give me a shot. Will you please help me be brave?” She wiggled her fingers, and the bracelet of her wrist sparkled.</p><p>Bruce frowned, wary without knowing why, but his mother’s hand was still extended, so he left Alfred and went to her. <i>He</i> would flee the needles, but he could be brave for his mother.</p><p>“There’s my boy.” His mother lifted him up into the chair next to hers and waited as he wiggled into place, feet dangling off the floor. He could smell her soft perfume and the softer smell of clean soap beneath that. Bruce liked the way his mother smelled and the way her scent filled his nose when they hugged but wasn’t so strong that it made his nose itch.</p><p>When he was done fidgeting, his mother extended her hand again, palm open like a flower, and he placed his hand in hers. Her skin was cool and clean and soft like her smell and held his hand like a prize.</p><p>“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said and tucked Bruce’s hand and hers onto her lap.</p><p>“You’re scared?” Bruce asked, and gave his father another stern look. His father looked back, amused and unimpressed.</p><p>“No,” his mother said slowly, “but I need that special Brucie-boy bravery. You know how Mama doesn’t like frogs?”</p><p>Bruce nodded. He did know. His mother hated frogs. She thought them slimy, even though they weren’t, and when they hopped she screamed. Mothers could be very silly like that.</p><p>“It’s like that,” she said. “Frogs aren’t bad, and needles aren’t bad. In fact, these needles are good. They’re going to help me not catch the flu. But they’re like frogs. I just need to be brave.”</p><p>Bruce frowned again, unconvinced. “Needles hurt.” He wasn’t a <i>baby</i>. He knew what shots were, and he knew why needles were in the no-touch bucket like knives and matches. Even <i>two</i>-year-olds knew these things, and he was four.</p><p>“Yes, sometimes,” his mother agreed. “But not much, and not for long. Sometimes we have to bear the quick pinch so we don’t feel a bigger hurt later.”</p><p>“A pinch?” Bruce asked.</p><p>“Yes, like this.” His mother’s free hand darted out and gave his side a tickle. Bruce squealed and shied away.</p><p>“Alright, you two, settle down,” his father said, but he was smiling, too. “Bruce, hold your mother’s hand.”</p><p>Bruce straightened himself out in the chair again and held out his hand. “You’re ready for the pinch?”</p><p>His mother nodded, lips still curved into a smile. “Yes, my darling.” She took his hand, but instead of completely covering it with her own, she clasped it like they were holding hands while crossing the street. “Did you know your hands have special powers?”</p><p>Bruce eyed his hand dubiously. That seemed a stretch too far. He couldn’t even open jars yet. Or bottle caps. Or high doorknobs.</p><p>“It’s true,” his mother insisted. “Just holding your hand gives me some of that special Brucie-boy bravery, but do you know what?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“If you squeeze my hand, and I squeeze yours, your special powers wake up, and it will keep me safe. Shall we try it?”</p><p>Bruce didn’t see any harm in that. It was her arm getting the shot, not his, after all. At his nod, his mother gave his hand a quick, happy squeeze and then sat back in her chair. Alfred had left the doorway and now was rummaging around in the cupboards. Bruce’s father spoke over the muffled clatter of shifting pans, and Bruce leaned in closer to listen. His father had a way of explaining things that Bruce liked, easy enough for him to follow, but hard enough that he felt smart for understanding. He liked, too, that his father always said what he was doing and why. Even though the shot wasn’t for him, Bruce didn’t like feeling surprised or unsure.</p><p>Bruce squeezed his mother’s hand as hard as he could when the needle went in, and maybe there was a little magic, because she didn’t cry at all. She was brave because he was brave, and when it was his turn, holding his mother’s hand made it hurt a little less.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The chairs were uncomfortable. That irritated Bruce more than he cared to admit. He could withstand discomfort far more critical than an oddly upright plastic chair—had, in fact. But it was the principle of the thing. The chairs were made for sitting, for waiting, but were unpleasant for both. The easy-to-clean, hard, blue plastic stuck to the skin in a tacky, almost humid way, and the molding of the seat and back meant that no matter how Bruce tried to sit, he would start sliding slightly.</p><p>At least the visit was almost over. Bruce had assumed Alfred would handle this appointment, and being told otherwise had thrown his entire morning out of order. Not that he minded. He couldn’t. Anything to do with Dick was his responsibility, he knew this. But his brain had classified a yearly physical as a household errand, one to be attended to by a responsible adult. Yet here he was, slowly sliding in a squeaky, sticky chair that smelled of disinfectant.</p><p>The checkup had gone well. Dick was below height and slightly above weight, due to his muscle mass, but not in any way that was concerning. Good eyes, good ears, good teeth, above average flexibility, and so on. There were no surprises, but still they had come to be in compliance with the law. It was a waste of time, by Bruce’s reckoning, but Dick didn’t seem to mind. He sat on the edge of the examination table, feet swinging like a metronome on double time, charming the nurses and chatting with the physician.</p><p>Everyone loved Dick. How could they not?</p><p>The doctor had just left, after giving a firm handshake to Dick and then to Bruce, and now they were alone in the room.</p><p>“So do we get to go now or what?” Dick asked.</p><p>Bruce hummed, his attention on the small notepad in his hand. His notations were all in code, but he had forced himself to wait to pull it out of his blazer pocket until the staff was no longer hovering. He wanted to jot down a few new ideas for Lucius to run past R&amp;D.</p><p>“You’re behind on some of your immunizations,” he answered as he sketched out a rough formula for better a hydraulic pressure mechanism.</p><p>“Immuna-wha?” Dick asked, voice bouncing in hopes of getting a laugh.</p><p>“No handstands in paper gowns,” Bruce said with a quick glance up. Dick scowled and settled back onto his feet again. “Immunizations. You should have already gotten your DTaP, MMR, VAR, HepB booster, and polio booster, but the circus’s medic didn’t keep adequate records. And a flu vacc, of course.”</p><p>“Words, words, words,” Dick griped.</p><p>“Shots, Dick.”</p><p>That, finally, seemed to be enough of an answer, because Dick quieted and Bruce continued work on his annotations in peace.</p><p>The nurse came bustling back in after a wait that seemed unnecessarily long. Bruce’s scribblings increased in pace. He would have to pocket his notebook in a moment and return his attention to the present, but he found it hard to detach his attention mid-thought. If he could just commit his idea to paper, it would hurt less to set it aside.</p><p>“Bruce,” Dick whispered.</p><p>“Mm,” Bruce grunted.</p><p>“Can we go?”</p><p>Bruce grunted again as he crossed out an incorrect figure and tried once more to make the equation balance.</p><p>“Bruce,” Dick said again, this time with a tug on his blazer sleeve, “I want to go.”</p><p>“The nurse isn’t finished.” He knew that without looking, able to hear her as she prepped the tray of vaccines.</p><p>“I think it’s okay,” Dick said with another tug. “We can worry about it next time. Come on.”</p><p>It was the strain in Dick’s voice, the subtle tension from a boy who did nothing at all subtly when it came to his own emotions, that made Bruce lift his head and at last give his full attention to his ward.</p><p>“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Bruce said slowly, because what he was seeing <i>was</i> fear, but he didn’t understand it. Dick swung from heights that would freeze the blood of a grown man. He was waiting to take the boy out into the field, but he had yet to see him flinch from anything. What was a little needle compared to a ten-story drop?</p><p>“‘m not ‘fraid,” Dick said, lying through his teeth. “They’re just… really big needles. And they hurt.”</p><p>He still had one hand on Bruce’s arm, fingers gripping the fabric tightly, while the rest of his shriveled and curled up into the seat, as if trying to use Bruce as a shield.</p><p>“Alright,” the nurse said as she rolled the tray in their direction. “Sit up straight for me, honey.”</p><p>Dick retreated further, eyeing the woman he had been laughing with not even a half hour ago with a deep and wary frown.</p><p>“Dad?” the nurse prompted, making Bruce jolt. “Why don’t you hold his hand? I’ll make it as fast as I can.”</p><p>He—That wasn’t the name for him. Dick had a dad. Bruce was just…the fill-in to get him to eighteen. That was all. Bruce barely felt old enough to be brave for himself. And memory was a funny thing. Because while parts of his childhood would remain tattooed onto his brain, unfaded and indelible until his dying day, there was so much Bruce could no longer recall. But if he chased after the scraps, like wisps of fog or the detritus of a dream after waking, he could just remember sitting on a chair, his own dimpled knees swinging above a tiled floor, holding his mother’s hand. </p><p>
  <i> I need that special Brucie-boy bravery. Squeeze my hand, darling.</i>
</p><p>Bruce unfolded slowly, like a windup toy creaking to life. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do, but somehow his arm pulled free from Dick’s grasp and found its way around the boy’s shoulders. He hesitated again, then scooped Dick up and onto his knee.</p><p>“You’ll sit with me. I’ll be here the whole time,” he told Dick softly, Batman’s low assurance woven into Bruce’s voice for only his partner to hear. “This is necessary. It will hurt, but not for much and not for long. I wouldn’t allow it if it weren’t important. Understand?”</p><p>Dick nodded, but his spine was still stiff with fear. Bruce extended one hand, palm up, and let it rest on Dick’s knee. Small fingers, calloused from flying, filled his hand almost immediately, warm palm pressed to warm palm. Bruce closed his fingers, enveloping the hand, keeping it close, keeping it safe.</p><p>“Squeeze my hand right before the needle goes in,” Bruce instructed, still just soft enough for Dick’s ears only, “then let go and relax. Trust me to catch you.”</p><p>Dick nodded once, eyes fixed on the nurse as she lifted his sleeve and swabbed his skin clean.</p><p>“Ready…”</p><p>Small fingers squeezed fiercely. The needle lifted.</p><p>“Now.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Barbara</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Waiting rooms were her least favorite place to be. Barbara didn’t wait well. Efficiency was the name of the game, forward progress. And yes, she knew, in her own way, she was privileged. With technology that could travel with her, waiting meant something different for her. She wasn’t reduced to thumbing through five-year-old magazines or scrolling mindlessly through her phone. She also didn’t have to sit in the sticky, antiseptic-funk plastic chairs. But she still hated waiting, and waiting for something she didn’t want to do in the first place felt like insult added to injury.</p><p>Of course, using time to get plow through her to-dos done only worked if she could focus on a project. Instead, Barbara was growling her way through a tricky level of Angry Birds and trying to not pay attention to the faded, sickly musk of the room around her. If she could get in and get out, she could go about her life. But she would also rather not go in at all.</p><p>“Barbara?”</p><p>Barbara’s head snapped up, game and waiting woes both forgotten as she stared up at Bruce Wayne. He held a case in one hand and wore a strange look on his face—similar to the one on hers, she was sure.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” Even as she asked, Barbara’s glance shot to the corners of the room. She couldn’t see any apparent threats, no noteworthy differences from her last visit, but if Bruce was here—</p><p>“I could ask you the same thing.” The strange look was still there, but it had morphed beyond surprise, evolving slowly into another emotion she couldn’t quite place.</p><p>Barbara glanced at the white door on the other side of the room, then back at the receptionist’s desk. She had already been waiting for fifteen minutes. Odds were good she had at least another fifteen to go.</p><p>“Come on,” she muttered and rolled to the desk. “Excuse me? I’m going to step outside a moment, in case the doctor calls for me while I’m out.”</p><p>The receptionist gave a bored nod, and Barbara quickly pushed her way to the door before anyone could notice Bruce Wayne standing among them. Not that they were likely to. Even Bruce’s simplest disguises—in this case, a ball cap and some worn jeans—were calculated to make attention slide off of him like water on glass.</p><p>“What’s going on?” she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot of the waiting room. “Are we in danger?”</p><p>“I…” Bruce’s lips parted, but nothing came out until a slow, “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”</p><p>Barbara’s eyes narrowed. She couldn’t remember the last time Bruce Wayne had audibly stumbled over anything.</p><p>There was a bench outside, 100 feet from the door, where the smokers would sit. It was empty now, the ashtray cold and undisturbed. Barbara didn’t need it, obviously, but she wanted Bruce at eye level.</p><p>She waited until he was seated, case on the ground by his feet, then leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. He had been a remote voice over the comm for weeks now, or a terse inquiry on her screen, but she hadn’t seen Bruce Wayne’s face in weeks. Their grief had blown them apart, like pieces of an explosion.</p><p>Barbara studied him closely now, as she knew he was studying her. It was hard to know how visible the changes really were. For her, who had known Bruce her entire life, the air of weariness was palpable, like a cloak of shadows pressing on his shoulders. He looked like he hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t breathed. Knowing him, he hadn’t, no more than she had. Silver hair peeked from beneath the cap, and she didn’t think she was mistaken that they were new. For anyone else, it would be silly to think they could gray in such a short time, but for Bruce, it wouldn’t be the first time. He had aged after Jason, too.</p><p>“Are you…” Bruce swallowed and tried again. “Why are you here?”</p><p>Barbara eyed him, then flicked a glance at the sign on the front door. “Appointment.”</p><p>A fear, bright and sudden, flared in her chest, that Bruce wasn’t here for a case at all. “Are you?”</p><p>Bruce’s head jerked hard to the left, shaking off the suggestion like a horse might a lead. “No. No, I’m fine.”</p><p>Debatable.</p><p>“Then why?” Barbara pressed.</p><p>“I was looking through his planner.” Bruce’s voice was a rasp. It always was when he talked about Dick. “I was looking…”</p><p>For clues. For a lead. For some indication of where he was, of what had happened. She knew. She had done the same thing. She had turned Dick Grayson’s life inside out when he disappeared. They all had, in their own ways, though none so obsessively as Bruce or as meticulously as Barbara. And still they had found nothing. Dick had vanished as thoroughly and completely as a wraith in the mist. Barbara had run herself into the ground searching. She knew Bruce had as well.</p><p>Three months in, she had struggled to find some semblance of balance. She wasn’t sure Bruce could say the same.</p><p>“Anything new?” Barbara asked, as kindly as she could, but knowing the answer nonetheless.</p><p>Bruce shook his head. “I thought… There was an appointment last year. All caps, lots of exclamations, but it was long enough ago that… But it was set to reoccur this year. Today.” He licked his lips and glanced at the glass front door. “Here.”</p><p>He shook his head again, just once, and crushed the brim of his hat with one hand. “Just another dead end.”</p><p>Barbara sat back in her chair and swallowed twice, trying to push down the lump in her throat. “He set an appointment?”</p><p>“A reminder,” Bruce corrected absently, but then his gaze flicked to her face. </p><p>Barbara looked away, off toward the staked saplings that lined the lot, eyes trained on the way the young leaves fluttered in the breeze. “Can you tell me what it said?”</p><p>Bruce didn’t have to pull out his phone. His eyes still on her, he recited from memory, “3 PM, 47 NE 8th Street, Unit 5. Bring chess set, peppermint, and washcloth.”</p><p>
  <i>Dick.</i>
</p><p>Barbara had cried more over Dick Grayson in her last twenty-odd years on earth than anyone else, and more in the last three months than she cared to repeat. She would not cry over him again. But it was a near thing.</p><p>Bruce waited until she had wrestled herself under control again before murmuring, “Barbara?”</p><p>That was Bruce. He… She hated him, sometimes. She had to. When he and Dick fought, Dick would come to her, because he needed to go to <i>someone</i>, and she was always on his side. Even after they broke up, she was still his best friend. And being his best friend meant that, long after he had patched things up with Bruce, she would remember. She bore his grievances so that he could move on.</p><p>So she hated Bruce sometimes. But he was still her best friend’s dad, still the Batman she trained beside, flew beside, worked beside. He was the man who would sit, heart bursting with impatience, and wait until she felt like she could breathe again.</p><p>Barbara cleared her throat and was relieved to find her voice cool and steady. “Dick found out about my appointments. They’re biannual, and I… I hate them.” She waved vaguely, brushing away the polite inquiry on Bruce’s face. “It’s a medical thing. Nothing life-threatening. Just helps ward off complications with my back. Anyways, Dick found out and invited himself along last year. He was waiting for me when I booked the followup visit. I didn’t know he’d paid attention.”</p><p>Of course he had. It was just like Dick to not say anything beforehand. Barbara could picture him showing up and sitting next to her, a smile on his face, ready to tease her out of her scowl. She would have felt embarrassed at first, but relieved, too. Or so she thought. She wouldn’t know now.</p><p>“The chess set?” Bruce asked. “The washcloth and the mint?”</p><p>Barbara looked down at the case by his feet and snorted, at last recognizing it for what it was. “Miniature chess,” she corrected. “The little magnetic traveling kind. He had it on him for Damian, last time. I don’t like waiting.”</p><p>She licked her lips and continued, “Peppermint, not mint. A little oil under the nose can settle the stomach. I usually throw up, after.” Dick had stayed with her for the entire procedure, then held her hair and rubbed her back. He’d stayed the night that night, not meaning anything by it, just content to crash on her couch and play Disney movies on loop until they both fell asleep.</p><p>Bruce’s gaze had wandered to the parking lot and the cars neat in their rows. “Your father isn’t…?”</p><p>“No. No, he doesn’t know.” Barbara grimaced. That came out wrong. “He knows about the appointments. He doesn’t know how much I hate them.”</p><p>Bruce was waiting again, hands loosely clasped, eyes steady on her again. Dick didn’t like to sit still. He liked to pace, even while silent, but Barbara thought he must have learned how to listen from his dad. It felt the same, like what she was saying mattered more than anything else in the world, like there was nowhere else Bruce would rather be. It made the words come easier.</p><p>“All of this,” Barbara gestured at her legs, “is hard on him. He thinks I blame him for what happened.”</p><p>She didn’t. She couldn’t. In some ways, her injuries had hurt her dad even more than they had her. She had adapted and moved on. He had tried. But she did, in her bitterest moments, find it cruel that when destruction had come for her, it had come not because of who she was or the danger she posed, but because she had been seen as a weakness to use against someone she loved.</p><p>“Miss Gordon?” The tech was at the door, a clipboard in hand. “Doctor Gupta is ready to see you now.”</p><p>Barbara’s stomach flipped, but she waved her acknowledgement, then turned back to Bruce. “I’m sorry.” Sorry he had to come out here, sorry it wasn’t a lead, sorry he’d had a few hours of hope before it crumbled to dust in his hand.</p><p>She gave him one last searching look, then pushed away to where the tech waited.</p><p>“This way, Miss Gordon,” the tech said, stepping aside to let Barbara in. Then, from behind, “Is your friend coming back with you or will he be waiting out here?”</p><p>Barbara swiveled in place. Bruce stood just inside the door, chess set in hand.</p><p>“I’d like to come,” he said quietly, “if I may.”</p><p>Barbara didn’t normally have a difficult time saying no. In many ways, it was one of her favorite words. But even as the polite refusal hovered on her tongue, she could feel Dick’s fingertips on her lips. He wasn’t able to come, wherever he was. It was just like him to send his dad instead.</p><p>Some parts were more awkward with Bruce—changing into the awful paper gown knowing he was on the other side of the door, the gown itself, the awkward lift onto the table, the even more awkward shuffling to drag her knees up and hold them tight, bare spine presented to the doctor. Bruce watched it all silently, impassively. He would forget none of it, and while Barbara burned with embarrassment, she knew he passed no judgement. And this wasn’t the part she needed him for, anyways.</p><p>The tech had provided a chair. Bruce sat at the head of the table, nearly eye level with Barbara as she lay on her side.</p><p>“What do you need me to do?” Bruce asked, voice low. The tech was moving about at the other end, pushing the padded block into place that would hold her legs where they needed to be.</p><p>This was the hard part. The needles themselves didn’t hurt, but Barbara had made the mistake once of seeing how big they were. And though they numbed her entire back, down to the point where physiology took over and did a much better job, higher up her spine she could feel the pressure of the needles going in. It wasn’t a sensation she could describe, though Dick had asked her to try once. All she knew was how it made her feel—the way she broke out in a sweat across her entire body, and her mouth overflowed with saliva, and the nausea crested in the back of her throat.</p><p>Nothing. She didn’t need anything. It was stupid for Bruce to be here, when he could be out looking for Dick, or passed out asleep in his own bed.</p><p>
  <i>Tell him.</i>
</p><p>“Peppermint,” Barbara said, holding out her hand for the little bottle. “And the washcloth needs to be wet.”</p><p>While Bruce rose and hurried to the sink in the corner of the room, Barbara dabbed a drop of the oil beneath her nose and breathed deeply.</p><p>“What next?” Bruce asked when he returned.</p><p><i>Babs.</i> Why oh why did the voice in her head sound like Dick? He should be here. <i>Tell him.</i></p><p>“Hold my hand,” Barbara rasped. She cleared her throat of the grief and the shame and tried again. “I need you to hold my hand.”</p><p>Bruce, to his credit, didn’t hesitate. One large hand reached out and enveloped hers. She forgot, the way Bruce Wayne made people forget, how truly massive his hands were. A callous at this base of his thumb rubbed against her skin, and the scratch of it undid a knot in her chest. Barbara wasn’t so old and jaded that Batman’s protection meant nothing. She almost was, almost, but not quite.</p><p>“Ready, Miss Gordon?” the doctor asked from behind.</p><p>“I may crush your fingers,” Barbara warned quietly. “Sorry in advance.”</p><p>Bruce’s mouth twitched, but his eyes were kind. “I can handle it,” he promised.</p><p>They both kept their end of the bargain. Barbara squeezed the life out of Bruce’s hand, and he bore it stoically. No, not stoically. Kindly. Paternally. He dabbed the sweat from her face and spoke in a low voice about Damian’s schoolwork and Cassandra’s yoga poses, Tim’s latest project and dinner with Jason. When talk about family took them too close to Dick, he switched tactics, relating an anecdote from Clark, but in a hokey drawl that had her snorting, and a decades-old story about her father, a hula hoop, and a pair of sequined gloves that she would definitely reserve for blackmail later. When she cried, he wiped away the tears without comment.</p><p>When it was all over, after the tech had helped her back into her clothes, Barbara sat on the edge of the table and shuddered as Bruce put on her shoes.</p><p>“Ugh,” she croaked. “All that and they don’t even give you a lollipop.”</p><p>Bruce’s eyebrows quirked upward.</p><p>“What?” Barbara asked. “Don’t tell me your pediatrician never gave you a lollipop at the end of your visits.”</p><p>Bruce shrugged, then straightened, his task complete. He held out a hand and Barbara nodded. She held her breath as he lifted her off the table and gently deposited her into the wheelchair.</p><p>“How long do the after effects last?” he asked.</p><p>She thought she’d been hiding the ongoing nausea pretty well. Of course he had to go all Batman on her.</p><p>“Depends,” Barbara admitted reluctantly. “A few hours, maybe.”</p><p>Bruce nodded, as if that were what he thought. “Did you drive?”</p><p>“No. Cab.” Her car—courtesy of Wayne Enterprises—was so adapted and automated, it practically drove itself, but driving after her appointment wasn’t a good idea, medically.</p><p>Bruce nodded again. “I’ll take you home, then.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Barbara insisted.</p><p>“And I’m not asking.”</p><p>“Bruce—“</p><p>“We get in the car and there will be no witnesses for this next story. I don’t want your father coming after me.”</p><p>Now that was tempting, as he knew it would be. Barbara considered, then considered again as she studied the weary creases around his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t just for her sake that he wanted to see her safely home.</p><p>“Alright, big guy,” she said at last, deliberately ignoring what the name did to his expression. “Lead the way.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Clark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’ve got to be kidding me.”</p>
<p>Clark ran a restless hand through his hair while Bruce waited impassively.</p>
<p>He wasn’t kidding. Clark knew this. Not that Bruce didn’t kid—he <i>did</i>, though so subtly and drily that it had taken Clark years to spot his tells—but there were things he did not joke about. Watchtower protocols were one of them.</p>
<p>“Why?” Clark asked. A piece clicked into place, and his eyes narrowed. “Is this what you were talking to the delegate about?”</p>
<p>“Partially.” Another flat-lipped stare from Clark elicited a one-shouldered shrug. “Before becoming a diplomat for the Mrgk fleet, xir background was in interstellar medicine. Apparently there are known viruses—not of Earth—native to this sector that travelers are routinely inoculated against. We’re pulled into extraterrestrial encounters too often not to protect ourselves. It was a very enlightening conversation.”</p>
<p>Clark could only imagine. Bruce Wayne had one of the hungriest minds Clark had ever met, but also one of the most dogged, especially when it came to preparedness, safety, and contingency plans. Finding out that their most recent guest could provide new information that was also useful would be like placing meat before a hound. The ambassador had likely left feeling gratified but also like xi had just come out of a week-long interrogation.</p>
<p>“So xi just… gave you some vials. And you’re going to stab me with them.”</p>
<p>That earned him a level look, the one the rest of the League called Bruce’s Disappointed Dad look. (Most of them, anyways. Hal called it the Head Smack look, since that was usually what followed.)</p>
<p>“No. First I had J’onn read xir to make sure xi was telling the truth,” Bruce explained patiently. “And then I stabbed myself with them.”</p>
<p>Clark, who had looked beyond Bruce to where J’onn was waiting patiently, whipped his attention back to his friend.</p>
<p>“You what?!”</p>
<p>If possible, Bruce’s expression flattened further, but Clark thought he caught a glimmer of amusement as well as Bruce rolled up the cuff of one sleeve. Five neat bandaids dotted an arm that looked healthy and whole, at least to the naked eye. Clark dipped his head and Bruce yanked his arm back.</p>
<p>“Did I give you permission to scan me.”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Clark said sheepishly and lifted his chin. By all rights, he shouldn’t even be surprised that Bruce had used himself as a guinea pig to test the potential side effects of unknown tech. It wasn’t like this was the first time. Still, there could have been anything in those vials.</p>
<p>“Are you alright?”</p>
<p>There was enough genuine concern in his voice that Bruce softened. “I’m fine. I spaced them out so there wouldn’t be overlapping side effects, and J’onn monitored me closely.”</p>
<p>That, in itself, was a major concession. Still, Bruce’s definition of <i>fine</i> was far from standard.</p>
<p>It was Clark’s turn to give a stern glare. Bruce huffed, stopping just shy of rolling his eyes, which was a shame. Clark had a running count going with Dick.</p>
<p>“The third one made me woozy,” Bruce admitted, tapping on the center bandage, “but only for a moment. It’s been a week since the last one, with no other reactions. You have that summit next month, so we need to get this over with now.”</p>
<p>“But… how?” Clark asked.</p>
<p>Alien medicine or not, there was no known substance that would break his skin while it remained under Earth’s yellow sun. Then his gaze snagged on the small black pouch at Bruce’s belt, and his stomach dropped.</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>Bruce’s mouth changed, the slightest downturn and deepening in one corner. Regret. It had taken Clark years to identify that as well, years of thinking Bruce hard and cold and unfeeling. Now he knew better. It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t feel. He just didn’t think his own feelings more important than what he thought needed to be done.</p>
<p>Clark looked past Bruce and J’onn. “Where are the others?”</p>
<p>“Out.” Bruce was firm, concise, like a door closing. “I don’t expect Arrow or Lantern in today. It’s J’onn’s shift. Flash is with Dick for the afternoon. And Diana is still off-world.”</p>
<p>Of course Bruce would have planned for this, would have anticipated the factors that would make Clark the most anxious and removed them before they became a problem. Even J’onn’s presence made sense now that Clark remembered that Diana was away.</p>
<p>Still, Clark could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He was glad no one else could hear it.</p>
<p>“We’ll be quick,” Bruce promised.</p>
<p>Clark nodded and pressed his palms to his thighs as he stood, to hide how clammy his hands had become. “Where do you want me?”</p>
<p>Bruce shepherded him to a chaise across the room. Clark sat, stomach flipping.</p>
<p>“Lie back,” Bruce instructed.</p>
<p>“I’m fine.”</p>
<p>Bruce waited. Clark pulled his feet up and lay back on the reclining seat.</p>
<p>J’onn stepped forward, a slim metal case supported by both hands. Clark trusted J’onn. They had been colleagues and friends for years now. They had fought shoulder to shoulder in battle and saved each other more times than he could count. But Clark wished he weren’t here.</p>
<p>It was a terrible thing to be at the mercy of another person. If Clark were feeling poetic, as he often was when musing on his adopted home, he might say that the deepest mercy was that of emotional vulnerability, of submitting to knowing and being known. But he had practice in that, as terrible and wonderful as it was. Not much, mind. The nature of his life meant walls, meant subterfuge, meant evasion and misdirection. There were few who truly knew him. Two of them were in this room. But that sort of vulnerability was outstripped far and away by physical vulnerability. <i>That</i> Clark didn’t know how to handle at all.</p>
<p>J’onn touched the side of the chaise, revealing a small tray that emerged silently from the side. Atop it, he placed the case, then opened the metal sides to reveal five slender syringes nestled on a black bed of fabric. They looked remarkably like standard Earth syringes.</p>
<p>Clark looked to Bruce, who gave a small shrug. “Some things just work.”</p>
<p>It seemed stupid that he could live in a world of spaceships and tiny handheld communicators but not hyposprays. Stupid that the idea of feeling brief, controlled pain could tie his stomach into knots. Children received inoculations. He could handle this. Right?</p>
<p>Clark could have stayed in his earlier seat, but the chaise was open on both sides. J’onn stood by one shoulder, squeezed between the chaise and the far wall, Bruce by the other, his back to the door. He needed that, too, to know that Bruce was the only thing between him and escape. Bruce could stop him. They both could. That’s why they were here. But Bruce only would if he thought it was necessary, and if Bruce thought it was necessary, well, then it was.</p>
<p>They were watching him now, J’onn with unblinking eyes, Bruce with hooded blue. J’onn swept back his cape and reached with one green hand for the syringes.</p>
<p>“We’ll be quick,” Bruce promised, and J’onn dipped his chin in assent.</p>
<p>“There should be no ill side effects,” Manhunter assured, his voice a steady, sonorous bass, “but you will be monitored regardless.”</p>
<p>Fantastic. He would be scrutinized like a bug in a glass while foreign substances coursed through his veins and he struggled to come back to himself. Clark swallowed hard, but looked up as a broad, calloused hand rested on his shoulder. Bruce stared back, patient and steady like the turn of the earth itself. </p>
<p>Clark nodded to answer the unspoken question. He was ready. </p>
<p>Bruce released his shoulder and flipped the catch on the little pouch at his belt. The side of the Batsuit stained green, and Clark’s ears filled with a far-off, high-pitched ringing. The pain hit him like a solid blow—No. That wasn’t right. No punch could land like this. He felt like he was being unmade.</p>
<p>Clark felt like a tin can in the vacuum of space, crumpling and collapsing. All advance warning had given him was the presence of mind not to run screaming from the room. He couldn’t tamp down his panic.</p>
<p>A hand was on his shoulder again. His heart rate, already beating staccato, trebled. He wouldn’t be able to fight. He could throw a punch, but his strength was gone, his invulnerability was on its way. He could bleed. He could die. He—</p>
<p>“Breathe.”</p>
<p>
  <i>Bruce.</i>
</p>
<p>That was right. Bruce was here. Clark hadn’t forgotten, not really. He knew who he was, who he was with. But Bruce’s voice tapped into the part of him that had spiraled, had thought he was under attack, was dying again, was alone again, was failing again. Clark felt blindly up his own chest until he could grasp the hand on his shoulder. Bruce’s fingers turned, releasing the muscles of his upper arm to return the grip.</p>
<p>“Ready,” J’onn judged. Clark could feels his deft fingers rolling back the cuff of Clark’s sleeve.</p>
<p>“Squeeze,” Bruce commanded, so Clark did, lightly at first, then more forcefully when he was sure he wouldn’t break Bruce’s fingers. Weak. He was already so weak. Just a man. How did Bruce live like this?</p>
<p>“Quick pinch,” Bruce warned, and there it was, biting into his arm. Clark’s brow furrowed, his his grip tightened further, but he didn’t flinch, not for the first or second or third or fourth or the fifth.</p>
<p>And then the pain was gone, lifting so suddenly and completely that Clark felt lightheaded. He opened his eyes. The pouch was closed, the searing green light trapped away again. He was aware of the rest of the world again—the weight of his friends’ study, the beads of sweat on his forehead, the subtle push of gravity that was lessening by the moment. Bruce’s hand holding his.</p>
<p>Clark flushed and pulled his hand away. Bruce let him.</p>
<p>“Thank you, J’onn,” Bruce said, and Clark added a thin smile as his own thanks before J’onn nodded and gathered up the case of empty syringes.</p>
<p>“How do you feel?” Bruce asked.</p>
<p>“Lightheaded,” Clark admitted, “but that’s normal.” He flexed his arm, now decorated with small, round bandaids, and frowned. “My arm is sore.”</p>
<p>“That’s standard.” Bruce had crossed the room and now returned with a chair, which he set down next to the chaise, and a small remote, which he kept in his hand.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” Clark asked as Bruce sat and turned on the overhead display.</p>
<p>“Taking the first shift. What do you want to watch?”</p>
<p>“Uh, I don’t know,” Clark fumbled. His arm really did hurt. Not much. Not like before, the way he had burned and disintegrated slowly. But it ached, perceptible only because it was new to him, different.</p>
<p>“<i>Matlock</i> is on,” Bruce began, flipping channels in that direction.</p>
<p>“No,” Clark said sharply, ignoring the sudden slant of Bruce’s eyebrows. “You guess within the first five minutes and ruin everything. I’m not watching any more detective shows with you.”</p>
<p>Bruce huffed.</p>
<p>“History Channel?” Clark suggested.</p>
<p>“They’re a joke,” Bruce grumbled. “<i>The Price Is Right</i> is—”</p>
<p>“Absolutely not.”</p>
<p>They squabbled back and forth for several more minutes, until Clark forgot the ache in his arm and the echo of panic squeezing his ribs. In the end, they settled on a replay of <i>The Fugitive</i>, settling in right as the bus crashed and Dr. Kimble began his life on the run.</p>
<p>“How long’s your shift?” Clark asked, his gaze on the screen.</p>
<p>“A few hours,” Bruce replied. “J’onn and I will switch off until we’re sure there are no adverse effects.”</p>
<p>“You’ll stay in the Watchtower?” Clark asked, and from the corner of his eye he watched Bruce nod.</p>
<p>The last bit of tension in his chest dissipated. He trusted J’onn. He liked J’onn. But Bruce was his brother, and having him near made Clark feel brave.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Clark said quietly.</p>
<p>Bruce grunted, then hissed, “Shh. I like this part.”</p>
<p>Clark snorted. A moment later, there was a tap against his arm. Clark looked down.</p>
<p>“What’s this?”</p>
<p>“Lollipop.” Bruce cut Clark a look out of the corner of his eye. “Forgot to give it to you earlier.”</p>
<p>Clark rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at his lips as he unwrapped the sucker and popped it into his mouth. It was lemon, tangy and bright. It felt like having his hand held.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For those wondering, this is one of the two chapters. Next week's is the other.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Dev</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His hands were trembling. The shadows they cast were pale against the counter beneath, but they fluttered like the dappling of leaves in a breeze.</p>
<p>Dev clenched his fists tightly enough to make the knuckles pop, then forced himself to relax. He couldn’t afford trembling fingers right now. When he turned back to the gurney, tools in hand, his expression was steady in a way the rest of him was not.</p>
<p>“Alright then, you know the drill.”</p>
<p>Damian let out a noise halfway between a growl and a huff.</p>
<p>“Oy, Bat Lad.” Dev gently bopped Damian on the nose with a tongue depressor. “The full show,  let’s have it.”</p>
<p>“I am <i>fine</i>,” Damian stressed, but released his death grip on the edge of the gurney and lifted his head for inspection.</p>
<p>He did seem to be fine. The heart monitor beeped steadily, and the blood pressure cuff hissed, sending off trails of data that indicated a slightly elevated pulse, but nothing concerning in that way.</p>
<p>“You know protocol as well as I do,” Dev reminded him. “Your da would have my sodding head if I didn’t follow it to a tee.”</p>
<p>Protocol was protocol for a reason, and at the moment, it was the only thing keeping Dev’s heart firmly in his chest, never mind Wayne.  If he followed protocol, then each potential disaster could be checked and double-checked. Protocol gave him structure to follow. Wayne was merely the lead that kept Damian under control.</p>
<p>Dev squinted as he shone the penlight into Damian’s eye, then pushed down on his tongue with the wooden stick to study the back of the boy’s throat. He ignored the movement in the corner of his vision. As long as he kept his focus on Damian, he would be fine.</p>
<p>It was the suddenness of the attack, he decided, that kept his stomach flipping and his hands shaking. The suddenness and the senselessness. There were locations in Gotham to avoid. Everyone knew this, from the smallest child to the newest transplant. Carnivals, funhouses, game show studios, banks, museums, gala fundraisers, etc. People still went, but they went knowing they risked an attack. Bookstores were not on that list.</p>
<p>Dev had thought they were safe. No, he hadn’t thought about their safety at all. Damian had wanted to go, lured by the potential of new store with a larger non-fiction section than their preferred secondhand haunt. It was his day off. They were supposed to be safe. </p>
<p>There had been a pop. Not the crack of a gun, but of a shatterproof windowpane being pushed from its frame. Windows in Gotham were always a gamble; was it better to keep glass from shattering or to be able to escape? It hadn’t mattered for the store in the end. As soon as the pane of glass hit the carpet, a canister followed, hissing with gas as it rolled across the open floor.</p>
<p>Gotham, for all its jaded ways, was still made of normal humans, just ones with slightly better than average threat assessment protocols. An attack on a low-risk location by an unknown entity using unidentified gas was <i>bad</i>. The panic had been instantaneous. The store, while not overly full, had still been crowded. Dev had been on the top level, four stories up. He had sprinted for where he had last seen Damian, heart dead in his chest, hands as cold as ice. Everyone else could panic. He didn’t dare, not yet.</p>
<p>Damian had seen him first, catching Dev about the waist and yanking them both in the direction of the stairs. They had been in sight of the glowing exit sign when Damian went down, tripped from behind by a bull of a man who had trod on the back of his shoe. Dev remembered yelling. He remembered staggering forward, pushed from behind by another customer frantic to reach the stairwell, then planting his feet to plunge his arm into the scrum as if into a roiling river.</p>
<p>Damian had come up gasping but alive, balanced on one foot. There was no time to examine him for injuries. The mob was still driving them on. Dev hauled the boy into his arms and hissed at the weight. Damian was too old to be carried even without the added mass of honed muscles. When the smoke began to thicken, Dev shoved Damian’s head under his jacket and held him tight. He didn’t put him down once, not anywhere on the four flights of stairs, not on the ground floor, not in the parking lot—not until Dev could place him in the front seat of his own car and peel out of the car park. Damian might have complained. Dev wouldn’t have heard over the blood rushing against his eardrums.</p>
<p>He hadn’t begun shaking until they were nearly to the Cave, where Alfred waited with a communicator in one hand and a full array of diagnostic tools already arranged bedside.</p>
<p>Behind him, Alfred spoke into the microphone, voice low and soothing but crisp as he directed the others about their tasks. Dev tried not to listen. He couldn’t help but listen. Much of the chatter meant little to him, the tactical speak the others used still opaque even after all this time. But it was good to hear their voices, the caustic bite of Jason, the soft asides from Tim, the warm guidance of Dick, the curt inserts from Cass, and, connecting it all, the cool orchestration of Wayne. It was normal operational chatter. Everyone was alive. Everyone was well. No one was dead. No one was hurt.</p>
<p>
  <i>They could be. This sodding family can hide injury like no one else, you know that. They could be hurt. There could be broken bones. Internal bleeding. They could—</i>
</p>
<p>“They’re on their way back,” Alfred announced.</p>
<p>Right. Good. He needed to get Damian upstairs and buy himself a few moments of solitude before the rest of the horde descended. Thankfully, most of the work was done. Damian’s primary injuries had been a dislocated kneecap, a bump to the head, scraped palms, and a gouge in his heel. The kneecap had been the worst for Dev. Dislocations were an easy fix, but for some reason Dev couldn’t shake the feel of the bone clicking into place against his palms. The scrapes had needed an antiseptic, the heel a bandage, and the head an ice pack. Dev pocketed his penlight, concussion and unknown gas protocols concluded.</p>
<p>Just a sore knee. That’s all that would come of their botched afternoon. Damian was fine. Dev was fine. The others were on their way back. He just needed a moment.</p>
<p>“Alfred,” he called over.</p>
<p>“Mm?”</p>
<p>“Dames is done, but he shouldn’t walk on that knee. I should tidy up down here. Would you mind wheeling him up?”</p>
<p>“Kiran, I can—“ Damian hushed reluctantly when Dev rested a hand on his shoulder. Dev kept his gaze on Alfred.</p>
<p>“Yes, of course.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to lower you into the wheelchair,” Dev warned, “and you’re not going to nip me for it.”</p>
<p>The order elicited the disgusted <i>tt</i> he had been looking for.</p>
<p>“Hup,” Dev said as he hooked Damian ‘round the shoulders and under the legs and lowered him carefully into the waiting wheelchair. Once the boy was settled, Dev bent down, hands braced against the arms of the chair. “Sorry about the trip, mate. Another day, perhaps.”</p>
<p>“It was not as planned,” Damian agreed. He sat straight-backed in the chair, one hand pressing the ice pack to his head, and his teeth worried his bottom lip a moment before adding, “But I am grateful for your assistance. And I am glad you are unharmed.”</p>
<p>Dev risked his hand to give Damian’s hair a tousle. If he stared too long, he could see Damian disappearing beneath the trampling crowd again.</p>
<p>“You’ll be up soon?” Alfred asked as he took hold of the chair’s handles.</p>
<p>“Once I’ve clapped eyes on the rest,” Dev promised. No point in coming up until he was sure they weren’t in need of care. And he needed the moments in between to catch his breath.</p>
<p>Alfred nodded and adjusted the ice pack on Damian’s elevated leg before pushing off for the lift. Dev watched, hands shoved into his pockets, until the lift doors shut with a quiet ding.</p>
<p>A moment, just a moment, he just needed a <i>moment.</i></p>
<p>Dev pressed a hand to his fluttering heart and ground the heel into the meat of his chest. It was silly to get this worked up. Everything was fine. He was fine. Damian was fine. Batman had reported back some minor injuries from the panic, but the alert had come in quickly enough that they had stopped the attack from going any further. All in all, a minor annoyance, by Gotham’s standards. But still Dev’s head spun with <i>what if, what if.</i></p>
<p>“You wanker,” he muttered as he began to tidy up his supplies. “You absolute plonker. You barmy git of a man. Pull yourself together.”</p>
<p>The churn in his stomach and the hum in his head didn’t listen, but Dev figured he could ignore it all. Alfred had poured him a glass of water, and it had sat forgotten, condensing on the counter. Dev went for it now in hopes of pushing some of the nausea down.</p>
<p>The glass slipped from his trembling fingers and shattered on the floor.</p>
<p>“<i>Shit,</i>” Dev hissed and dropped to his knees. He needed to clean this up before anyone saw. Pick up the glass shards, wipe up the water, hide the pieces, throw it all away before—</p>
<p>A door slammed, far away but loud as a shotgun blast. Dev choked back bile. It was too late.</p>
<p>He was frozen, crouched over his own mess like a rabbit quivering in the brush. If he stayed to tough it out, the punishment would be bad, but if he tried to run and was caught, it would be ten times worse. Dev spat out breathless curses like broken teeth as he tried to gather the glass up. Just water wouldn’t be so bad. Water could be a leak, someone else’s fault, not his, not his fault, if he could just get the glass up and away—</p>
<p>There were feet on the stairs, the heavy, trodding steps of meticulously shined shoes. The last of Dev’s courage left him. Abandoning the glass, he scrambled away, clumsy momentum sending him forward on hands and knees until he could stagger to his feet. He needed a safe place, a closet corner or a shadowed niche, somewhere meaty arms couldn’t fit, somewhere his mum wouldn’t look, somewhere his sister wouldn’t rat him out.</p>
<p>The room was shaking with his name, a roar that rattled his bones and sunk his heart. Dev scuttled backward, hands clasped to his ears, arms wrapped protectively around his head—<i>sorry, sorry, sorry, it was an accident, sorrysorrysorry</i></p>
<p>He couldn’t breathe. Panic was caving his chest in, blood rushing in his ears, down his neck, into his collar. He was curled on his side, crumpled skull against the floor. He could hear the whine of the drill.</p>
<p>
  <i>No, wait! Wait! I’m still awake! Don’t!</i>
</p>
<p>He needed anesthetic, they couldn’t drill into his head while he was awake, but he could hear the drill and feel the vibrations in his bones, in the buzz of his teeth.</p>
<p>
  <i>No!</i>
</p>
<p>Dev smacked blindly at the hands that gripped him. He knew fighting back would only make what came next even worse, but he couldn’t stop. This would be the end of him, the day his da finally did him in. He was lifted up, and for a moment he thought he’d die already, but then restraints replaced the hands. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He could hear his own name, thundering in bass.</p>
<p>“Hold him now. Hold him steady.”</p>
<p>“Dev. <i>Kiran.</i>”</p>
<p>Dev’s eyes flew open, blown-wide pupils letting in too much light, the world a bright, stabbing blur. A demon loomed over him. Dev recoiled, then jerked, halted by the cuffs on his arms and legs.</p>
<p>“Alfred, hurry. Dev, sweetheart, I need you to calm down.”</p>
<p>Dev panted, a whine leaking from deep in his throat. There was a hand in his hair.</p>
<p><i>Don’t,</i> he wanted to say. <i>My skull, it’s broken, you’ll scatter the pieces.</i></p>
<p>“Kiran, look at me.”</p>
<p>The voice was firm, unyielding. Dev obeyed without meaning to, pulled from his own terror to focus on the shadow over him that had just stepped between Dev and the light.</p>
<p>It was Bruce, sweaty hair askew, face still creased red from the cowl.</p>
<p>“Wayne,” Dev rasped.</p>
<p>“You’ve been drugged. Alfred’s bringing the antidote now. I need you to regulate your breathing and hold still.”</p>
<p>Where was his da? He could feel the air on the busted side of his head, breeze on exposed brain. His lungs burbled, pneumonia rising. Dead soon, dead three ways, and a mess still on the floor besides.</p>
<p>“You need to <i>calm down.</i> Breathe with me, in and out.”</p>
<p>“Hate needles,” Dev gritted out.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Hate sodding needles.” Let him die first, then, as long as it didn’t mean getting stabbed by a bloody needle.</p>
<p>“I’ll hold your hand,” Wayne promised, as if that would help at all.</p>
<p>A figure flickered in his periphery. Dev sucked in a breath and held it, heart hammering to burst. Better he drown in his own lungs than go at his da’s hands.</p>
<p>“Dev? <i>Kiran?</i> The sedative, <i>now</i>.”</p>
<p>There was a prick at his neck, and then nothing at all.</p>
<hr/>
<p>When Dev woke again, the fear was gone. His chest was still, empty except for the easy breathing of healthy lungs and the rhythmic beat of a resting heart. He lifted a steady hand to his head—restraints gone—and gingerly prodded an unbroken skull. Only when that was done did he dare to open his eyes.</p>
<p>He was on a gurney in the Cave. The lights far overhead were set to low, but still he squinted against the glare. There was a cannula in his nose and a lead taped to his wrist where the IV fed into a vein. His other hand was warm.</p>
<p>Dev turned his head to where Bruce Wayne sat bedside, one large, calloused hand enveloping Dev’s. He was still in uniform from the neck down, but the cowl was off, and a pair of reading glasses rested on his nose. A folded crossword lay balanced on one knee, half the answers already carefully inked in capital letters.</p>
<p>Later, Dev would learn about the time-delayed fear toxin released in the bookstore, a harm Damian had avoided by virtue of Dev’s jacket. Tim would tell him of returning to find Dev huddled on the floor, out of his mind with terror but quiet as a whisper, and of being ordered away to warn Gordon to recall the victims. Alfred would downplay the sprint for the antidote, quickly concocted from known variants, but would pat Dev’s hand again, as if to reassure himself again that all was well. Dick would say a little about helping Bruce pin Dev down. Bruce would say very little at all. He wouldn’t need to. Because now he sat, cradling Dev’s hand though all threat of needles had long since passed, and furrowed his brow at 36-Down. </p>
<p>“Lolly,” Dev rasped from his bed. Bruce hummed, tone trending upward into a question. He didn’t let go of Dev’s hand. “Five letters. British sweet.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.” Bruce marked in the letters, then said, “We can get you one later, if you want.”</p>
<p>“Sod off.” But Dev couldn’t help huffing a laugh. Soon enough, he would need to roust himself and drag his sorry self home. But for now, he was content to drift in and out of sedative-tinged ease, hidden away in the safest place in Gotham, terrors kept away by the surety of having his hand held by Batman.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This was the other one. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Bruce</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Disaster didn’t often come with a warning.</p><p>“Batman? Batman! What was that? Report!”</p><p>People spoke of a sixth sense, of intuition, but that was for danger. For the avoidable. Bruce had that, the ability to observe, to notice, to let his subconscious piece together the clues to warn him of creeping danger.</p><p>Disaster was different.</p><p>“B? Oh—Okay, it’s okay, just breathe. Can you squeeze my hand?”</p><p>There had been no avoiding this. It had been less of a warning, more of an inevitability, like being outside himself, like watching a glass tip off the edge of the counter, too far away to do anything but watch.</p><p>“Superman! Oracle, I need Superman. And call the doc!”</p><p>Except it was no glass. No small catastrophe of shining shards and spilled water on tile floor, no fluke of balance and gravity. Instead it was bone and metal and the wrong turn at the wrong moment. The gravity was the same, though.</p><p>“Nightwing?”</p><p>Dick’s hand was still on his shoulder. Clark’s boots were next to his face. He could hear them crunch in the Gotham grit.</p><p>“Oracle heard him go down. I don’t see any lacerations.”</p><p>Silence, just a beat, except for the roar of battle and the hissing wheeze of his own labored breathing.</p><p>“His back. Right above…”</p><p>Right above where he broke it last time. Bruce had known just before the pain hit, aware in slow-motion horror as his opponent had swung its tree-sized arm and flung him across the asphalt.</p><p>The battle was still raging on. He could hear it, though he couldn’t reattach himself enough to open his eyes. The pain was a balloon, pushing outward in every direction until he was crushed inside himself. They needed him. They needed Clark and Dick. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe.</p><p>There was rushed conferring above him, Oracle joining in their ears. Arrangements were made quickly, with explosions still sounding in the distance. Once, all chatter cut off, the world going black as Clark and Dick crouched above him, Clark’s cape swept over them both like a shield as the ground rattled.</p><p>Something long, flat, and rigid was carefully slid beneath him, and gentle hands turned him to lay secure.</p><p>“I’ll be right behind you,” Dick promised, still gripping his shoulder. There was the rough press of lips to Bruce’s scalp, and then hand and lips fell away as Superman lifted him and the board beneath him into the air.</p><p>He didn’t like flying with Clark. Bruce trusted Clark, obviously. Flying with Superman was safer than plane or helicopter or any other mode of transportation. But Bruce didn’t like the lack of control. It didn’t matter much now. Everything was out of control.</p><p>“Oracle is calling ahead,” Clark said over the rush of the wind. “Dev will be there and waiting. It’ll be okay.”</p><p>The words meant very little. Bruce could hear them but not understand them. His eyes were shut against a world white-hot with pain. Later he would piece them together, grumble about the use of names in the field—never mind that no one would be able to hear them—and sigh over Clark’s ease at making promises he couldn’t keep.</p><p>Clark talked the entire way back. He explained why he was going so slowly (to keep from jostling Bruce), how he’d left the fight (fine, just fine, the League had it handled), and sighed fitfully over Bruce so low that Bruce wasn’t sure it was meant for his ears. He knew it stressed everyone out when he was hurt. To be fair, he wasn’t a fan either.</p><p>The Cave was noise and light, same as the battlefield they had left behind, but different. There was pain still, lighting him up like a Christmas tree. Bruce lay rigid on the board, every muscle tensed to breaking. But there was no chaos here, not like the bucking thunder of war. This was Dev’s domain.</p><p>There was discussion above him again. The world felt pressed up against his skin, grating on a raw nerve, but the pain separated the meaning from the cacophony until his own name made it through.</p><p>“Wayne?” His own name sounded garbled, echoing into a fishbowl. A hand rested on his head, carefully placed not to strain his already taxed body. “Hold tight and we’ll have you sorted in no time.”</p><p>Bruce couldn’t reply. The best he could do was a clenched-teeth sort of wheeze, but he knew Dev understood. And Dev’s promises meant something in a way Clark’s couldn’t.</p><p>He hated this. He <i>hated</i> this. The pain wasn’t even the worst part. That he couldn’t move, that he couldn’t speak, that he couldn’t gather the crumbled pieces of his own body and force them back together by sheer will—that was the worst part. If he could just goad himself up, he could stagger back out to the fight and tend to himself later, when there was no one around to worry.</p><p>“No.” That word was clear and heavy as Alfred’s bracing hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you dare.”</p><p>He had barely twitched a foot, but of course Alfred knew.</p><p>“Superman, you have him?” Dev.</p><p>“Yes.” Clark.</p><p>He did. Every time Bruce scraped another thin breath in through his teeth, it was with his nose smashed against the Superman suit. Clark would hold him steady while Dev worked, Atlas bracing the world.</p><p>“A strong sedative now,” Dev warned. “There’ll be a pinch. Alfred, his hand.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Hold his hand.” That was Clark.</p><p>What were they talking about? Bruce didn’t know, was too close to crying to care. He expected Alfred to cluck his tongue in dismissive amusement, but instead a worn palm slid against his.</p><p>He didn’t understand.</p><p>Then there was the pinch and the hot, sickly rush of narcotics. The world receded, along with the pain. Instead of being pressed against the inside of himself, smeared across the thin membrane separating the end of him and the totality of the screaming, pulsing, blazing world, he was falling down a well. The light around him receded to a pinpoint. The water shimmered above him, dark and deep, and muffled the voices above. He was floating. Dead man’s float.</p><p>“I have to get back.” That was Clark. He wanted Dev to tell him to stay. Bruce could tell, even from the bottom of the deep, dark well. But someone needed to be out there. Clark was speaking again, low, for Bruce alone. He couldn’t make out most of it, just the important parts. Clark would protect Dick, and then he would be back.</p><p>That was all Bruce could hold on for. He let the rest of the light leave, along with the noise of the Cave and the world around him. Then he was gone.</p>
<hr/><p>There was a spark in the center of his chest. That’s what came back first. The consciousness of him, an ember in the emptiness of space. Fire was impossible in space, but the ember didn’t know that. This was why he hated heavy sedatives, that long, slow climb back into himself, the mute stupidity that came with it. But he didn’t hate it now, only later. Hate was more than the spark could handle.</p><p>Bit by bit, he spread, settling into himself, the black emptiness turning charcoal with shadows, then lighter and lighter shades of gray. He could hear the steady beep of a monitor, a sure sign that something had gone wrong—he assumed with him, since he was the one left in the dark. With the beep of the monitor and the hum of machinery and the far-off chitter of bats came a little more sensation. His body felt heavy and numb, pain a dull, red ache somewhere below and away, like a banked fire. It would come roaring back later, but later was later was later. And for now, he was much more interested in the hand holding his.</p><p>Bruce pushed with all his might and lifted the gray. Light pushed back, spilling into his eyes. He grimaced, groaned without meaning to. The hand tightened, a comfort, not a warning.</p><p>“Welcome back, sir.”</p><p>“Alf?” The name was mouthed more than spoken. His mouth was bone-dry. He could feel that now, too.</p><p>A straw tapped against his lips. He drank, training forcing him to take slow, careful sips when he wanted to upend the glass over his face.</p><p>“You’re all right,” Alfred was saying, which meant it must be true.</p><p>Bruce sorted through the muddy watercolor scraps of his memory and pieced together the blow and the break, the scream that had torn free, the flight to the Cave, the battle he had left behind.</p><p>“Dick?” he rasped. He was squinting now, studying Alfred’s face for any twitch of a lie.</p><p>“Upstairs. He was here earlier, but Ms. Gordon stopped by.”</p><p>Good. Good. None of Bruce’s children did particularly well when Bruce was hurt, but Dick was more inclined to bear the load himself. Barbara wouldn’t let him brood alone.</p><p>“She left a travel game here before going upstairs,” Alfred continued, voice rippling with bemusement. There was a quiet rat-a-tat of soft thumps as he tapped his fingertips against the case.</p><p>Bruce knew, without looking, that it was a small, plastic chess set. He huffed. Alfred didn’t ask.</p><p>“Those extraterrestrial hooligans were sorted without incident,” Alfred said, moving on to the next worry he knew Bruce would gnaw on. “Mr. Kent was here again for a short time. He says he will return tomorrow for a visit.”</p><p>That wasn’t necessary, but Clark would fret, so Bruce would let him. Unless it <i>was</i> necessary?</p><p>“My back?” Bruce asked quietly, already steeling himself for the answer.</p><p>“An unfortunate confluence of events, but none permanent should you follow medical advice.” The last portion was pointedly stressed. Bed rest, then. Bruce <i>hated</i> bed rest.</p><p>Alfred’s hand, which Bruce had already forgotten about, tightened again. “You were extraordinarily lucky, Master Bruce.”</p><p>He knew. He would never say so, but he did know. In his line of work, disaster always waited in the wings. One day, his back would fail again, this time for good. He was just glad that today was not that day.</p><p>Bruce frowned, his ability to comfortably drift on the lingering haze of sedatives marred by a glaring absence. “Where is Dev?”</p><p>“In the changing room.” Concentrating, Bruce could hear the far-off hiss of the showers. “It has been a late night for all of us.”</p><p>“You can…” he began reluctantly.</p><p>“I shan’t,” Alfred interrupted firmly. He began to withdraw his hand, however, and Bruce, desperate, snatched it back.</p><p>Medications were strange, awful things. They took so much from him. He gave up his pain to them, yes, but also too much of his control, too much of the protection he required to keep himself at bay. That had to be the reason for the way the corners of his eyes pricked hot with sudden, unshed tears.</p><p>“Master Bruce?” Alfred prodded cautiously.</p><p>“I’m fine.” It still caught him off guard sometimes, the grief so sudden and and unexpected that it felt like being struck from behind. Bruce had lived life far, far longer without his parents than with, but he longed, suddenly, for the cool press of his mother’s hand in his hair.</p><p>Alfred knew, or guessed, in the mysterious way he often did. The hand, tissue paper soft but still wiry with strength, settled into place again while the other brushed a lock of hair from Bruce’s forehead.</p><p>“Their hearts will always be with you, my boy. As is mine.” The calloused heel of Alfred’s thumb rubbed gentle circles into Bruce’s temple, making him sigh. “Now, rest a bit while you can. Kiran will want to wake you soon.”</p><p>Bruce grunted, but he was well on his way already. “Stay,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Always,” Alfred promised and gave Bruce’s hand a squeeze.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! Be sure to share with your friends. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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